The Well of Shades (50 page)

H
IS HANDS CURLED
around a beaker of ale, Faolan sat in a shadowy corner of the drinking hall at Thorn Bridge, watching and listening. His mission had carried him far to the southeast, near Carnach’s home territory of Thorn Bend and even closer to the Circinn border.

He knew the man who ran this hostelry; long ago, he had seen the advantage of befriending
the fellow. Each time he passed this way, he made sure he carried a small payment in silver.

There was no settlement here, just the bridge and the inn, with a farm or two close by. It was pleasant, rolling country dotted with trees; the sheep that grazed in these fields looked fat and healthy. Through the strath ran the river Thorn, a broad watercourse that marked, roughly, the split between
the two major kingdoms of the Priteni, Fortriu and Circinn.

Three ways met at the bridge. One ran southward to Thorn Bend, one north and west toward Caer Pridne.
The third took an easterly course and led into Circinn before joining a road to the court of Drust the Boar. At least, it had been his court; there was a new king in that realm now, Drust’s brother Garnet. That much Faolan had gleaned
from the travelers who passed this way and paused for a drink, a bite to eat, and a chance to rest weary feet or worn horses. The inn at Thorn Bridge was the perfect place for gathering information. He had been here several days now, sometimes giving the innkeeper a hand with this and that to earn his bed in the stables—the payments in silver were more for keeping quiet than for food and lodgings—sometimes,
as now, just sitting. He’d cropped his hair ruthlessly short and avoided shaving since White Hill. He wore plain worker’s clothing. He could have been anyone. When required to speak he used a neutral accent based on Garth’s, a voice that identified him as a man of Fortriu, with nothing particular to indicate his home territory or family status. Thus far, nobody had asked his trade. Folk’s
eyes tended to pass over him. It was a well-practiced invisibility.

There had been small bands of armed men on the roads, traveling here and there. From those who were not too tight-lipped to talk, and from cottagers and traders, Faolan had learned that Garnet was now king of Circinn, and that Carnach had passed this way some time ago, heading for the new king’s court. To do so openly was uncharacteristic,
for Fortriu’s chief war leader was a subtle man. Something did not add up.

Faolan stared into his untouched ale, watching the patterns as he turned the cup between his palms. He needed more. Another day, he’d stay here one more day, and if nothing conclusive came in he was going to have to cross the border and head into Circinn himself. There was a dark possibility in the rumors, and if it proved
to have foundation, he must make certain of it before he took it to Bridei.

Faolan shivered, pushing the ale cup away. A rebellion;
perhaps another war. If it happened, it would not be like last time, when the king had sent him away as escort to Ana so he would not have to fight. That journey had proved so dark and dangerous both he and Ana had emerged as different people. And then Bridei had
sent him home. Home. Another adventure, strange, terrifying, full of surprises. He found himself smiling. Eile and her pitchfork; Eile on that wretched bridge, clinging. The smile faded. Eile all over blood. Saraid flushed with fever, her breath harsh in her small chest. Eile asking him… No, he would not think of that. It had haunted his dreams for more restless nights than he cared to remember and
he wanted rid of it. She’d be gone when he got back to White Hill; nothing was surer with this mission carrying him so far south and the information so slow to come. She’d be gone and so would Ana. That was what he wanted. That was best for everyone. If there was war again, this time between Fortriu and Circinn, there could be no possible reason for Faolan not to stand at his patron’s side to protect
him. He could use his skills with the best of them. If he went, this time, Garth might yet again stay behind and survive; Garth who had a wife and children who needed him. Nobody needed Faolan. He could be a perfect warrior, with no reason at all to fear death.

For a moment he allowed himself to imagine it: dying heroically as Deord had done, surrounded by fallen enemies. Then something made
him look up, and he saw Deord seated opposite him at the rough inn table, muscular arms folded, serene eyes fixed on Faolan in question.
Have you forgotten?
the spectral warrior whispered.
You owe me. You know the payment. Live your life. Live it for all those who never left Breakstone
. And, as the figure faded, he heard Eile’s voice in his head, raised in a scream:
Faolan! We’ve come to get you!
Tears pricked his eyes. If there had once been a hero hidden somewhere in him, that man was surely gone. He did not want to go to war.

“I’ve done poorly thus far, friend,” he whispered to the vanished Deord. “I broke a promise. Two promises.” He’d told Eile he would be waiting when she and Saraid reached White Hill. Then he’d left her on her own yet again. What was it he’d told her back in Erin,
I’ll be there as long as you need me?

Still, they would be safe with Ana and Drustan. Eile would be happier, with a surer chance of making something of herself. What else was he supposed to do? He was Bridei’s man; this was his life, one mission after another, an existence of journeying, of risk, of sudden death and perilous chances. It was what he did. It was the only thing he did, and he was
good at it. Bridei needed him. He could not let Bridei down.

Faolan sat awhile longer, staring blankly across the dim expanse of the drinking hall, which was empty save for the hostelry’s proprietor sweeping. He tried to stop his mind from turning in unproductive circles. Right now, the only important thing was Bridei’s mission. He’d made his choice back at Pitnochie when he spoke to Ana and
Drustan. He’d made it again when he couldn’t summon up the will to leave Eile a message at White Hill. Such a simple thing.
I’ve been sent away; I’m sorry I was not here as I promised
. And perhaps,
I hope you will be happy at Dreaming Glen
. He’d had it in his head, all ready. But who could he tell? Faolan, the king’s assassin and spy, the man so secret and private folk thought him incapable of
human feelings, suddenly acquiring a young woman and a little girl as traveling companions? Leaving personal messages for them? He could imagine the raised brows, the knowing smiles, the conjecture. Even Bridei, he could not bring himself to tell, Bridei who had long tried to convince him that he was not that hard-shelled, impervious professional. To go on, to do what his job required of him, he
must be that man. To do the things he had to do, he must put away all notion of a different kind of life. Softer feelings made a man vulnerable. They gave him weak spots that could be
exploited. A man whose trade was all in plots and subterfuge, in trickery and sudden death must, in the end, walk on alone. To attempt otherwise was to put those he loved at terrible risk. If he had not known this,
perhaps he would have stayed at Fiddler’s Crossing. Eile had been happy there.

The smile came back as he remembered her at the table, her red hair freshly washed and shining in the sunlight from the big window; he pictured her in the blue gown Líobhan had given her, the bright color emphasizing her pallor. “Eat slowly, Saraid,” he heard her saying, and saw the child, large eyes solemn, breaking
her bread into tiny, even pieces.

Faolan got to his feet and walked over to the doorway, suddenly unable to be still. Logic had no place in this argument. Logic could not account for the aching emptiness inside him. It could not explain the dreams.

W
HEN ANOTHER NIGHT
had passed and no fresh news had come in, Faolan left Thorn Bridge and headed for Circinn. He did
not take the road, but went by covert ways, sometimes walking, sometimes getting a lift on a cart, always traveling roughly southeastward. The news by the way was full of contradictions. He hoped he would not have to infiltrate the southern court itself; this was taking too long, with the influential Christian, Colm, expected at White Hill before midsummer and the king’s druid still absent from court.
Faolan wanted this matter of a rebellion out in the open before that new challenge must be faced. If Carnach planned a revolt, let him declare it. If he was in league with Circinn now, having decided to throw in his lot with this new king, let them announce that for all to hear. If there was to be war again, let these plotters at least have the decency to allow Fortriu to draw breath before the
first blow.

He put Eile away in a corner of his mind, and Saraid
with her. He found he could not banish them completely; they had a habit of reappearing from time to time in a small, intense image or a snatch of words. He let those moments pass and tried not to think too much of them. Nights were the worst. He dreamed. Often he awoke, uncomfortably, with his body hot and hard with desire, requiring
a sudden dip in a cold stream or a bout of furious physical activity to quell it. There had been a time when the image of Ana had tormented him thus, a time when his golden-haired princess had walked regularly through his sleep, as lovely and untouchable as a fairy woman of ancient story. To his astonishment, that had changed from the moment he saw her at Pitnochie, saddened by her recent loss
but profoundly content in the choices she had made. What had once been a passion that threatened to possess his very soul had become, without his being aware of it, a quieter, less dangerous feeling: a lifelong bond of deepest friendship.

The dreams persisted, full of sensual delight and tormenting choices. But Ana no longer had a place in them. On this journey, the woman who lay with him by
night was younger, slighter, with hair like dark fire and pale skin dotted with freckles; her touch was sweetly hesitant, her body a wonder to explore, lithe, fresh, giving. Sometimes he got it right, and pleased her, and heard her little sound of satisfaction; felt her move above or beneath him, sighing; saw her smile in surprised delight. Sometimes he got it wrong, and sent her back into the nightmare
of Dalach, the pain, the powerlessness. Waking from those dreams was a tumult of guilt and sorrow, tempered by profound relief. Thank the gods that he had refused her offer.

Once inside the borders of Circinn, Faolan took a more cautious approach to his task. He could not afford to be apprehended; he must get back to White Hill as soon as he had what he needed. For two more days he traveled,
stopping here and there for directions, chatting casually to farmers who gave him lifts, visiting a dwelling of
Christian monks, where he was offered bread and parsnip wine and the advice that he should go carefully, as the roads in the district were not considered safe at the present time. He asked why this was so; the cleric whispered that there had been talk of parties of armed men on the move,
of ambushes and general unrest. Faolan did not think he could ask any more questions, so he bid the fellow farewell and went on his way.

He had never been much of a sleeper; the nature of his work meant his nights were often spent on watch, listening for sounds in the darkness. It was his practice to make do with brief or broken rest, taken only when all was safe. Now his dreams were coaxing
him out of that long-held discipline. At day’s end he found himself sinking into a well of sleep from which he did not emerge until near dawn. The dreams enmeshed him; sometimes they felt more real than the daily world of crossing ground, finding cover, gleaning the scant harvest of news. When it was the good dream, often enough he would half wake, then dive again into the secret, tender world of
his imagining. A man on a covert mission cannot afford such indulgence. Such a slipping of standards can only lead to disaster.

Thus it was with Faolan one morning on his journey farther across Circinn. He lay in the shelter of a straw stack, his cloak wrapped around him. A drystone wall kept the wind at bay. She was in his arms, not sighing and moving in an act of passion this time, but sleeping
curled against him, her arm across his chest, her head in the hollow of his shoulder. He pulled the quilt up over her, his hand lingering on the long, silken strands of her hair. It was almost dawn. It seemed a miracle that she lay there thus, skin to skin, the soft touch of her breath against his body, the warmth of her filling him like a blessing, the depth of her slumber telling him that,
against the odds, he had won her complete trust… A little voice spoke up, right next to the bed.
Get up, Feeler. Sorry’s hungry
.